


Medical Considerations #1:Fire and Water

by stargatefan_archivist



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Angst, Gen, Missing Scene, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-10-07 03:29:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10351320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stargatefan_archivist/pseuds/stargatefan_archivist
Summary: What got said and done off screen ... maybe. Missing scene fromfirst season episodeFire and Water





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Yuma, the archivist: this work was originally archived at [Stargatefan.com](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Stargatefan.com). To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [StargateFan Archive Collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/StargateFan_Archive_Collection).

Stargate SG-1 | Missing Scene Fanfiction | Medical Considerations:Fire and Water

##  Medical Considerations: Fire and Water 

##### Written by OzKaren   
Comments? Write to her at phantasia@healey.com.au

There are two kinds of people in this world: the ones who stay behind to clear up after the party, and the ones who don't. 

By the time the sun had slipped below the horizon and the first stars were twinkling and most of the food was just a smeared memory on the plates, there was only us left. The General, Sam, Teal'c and me. To be fair, some people did help a little before rushing off to other commitments or to rescue their babysitters or to somewhere, anywhere, that didn't remind them of death and loss and barely controlled grief. The rest just couldn't be bothered, but that's par for the course. Oh, well. I gave up bitching about human nature years ago. 

Sam was washing up. Teal'c was drying: oh, for a camera. The General -- he keeps telling me to call him George when we're not on duty but I don't know. Seems disrespectful, somehow. Well. George was putting everything away with a deftness that suggested he knew his way around Jack's kitchen a damned sight better than business only interaction warranted. I was playing hunt the potato chips between the sofa cushions, and herding stray beer bottles back to the corral. 

As for Jack, he'd retreated to the roof hours before, and by tacit consent we'd left him there. It would have been cruelty to dumb animals to make him pretend any longer. 

I gave downtairs one last sweep, located a single ingenious Budweiser hiding in a potplant, and rejoined the others upstairs. I did the same up there, wiping a damp cloth over everything, straightening picture frames, curtains, chairs. I don't know. There's just something peculiarly satisfying in creating order out of chaos, cleanliness out of mess. 

Must be why I became a doctor. 

Sam was on the last relay of plates, up to her elbows in warm, soapy water. It was a little strange to see her in a dress. She usually prefers jeans when she's not in uniform. It was even stranger seeing Teal'c in civvies. Somehow the ordinary pants, shirt and blazer served only to emphasize his alienness instead of camouflage it. As for George, well, he's so at home inside his skin that the external trappings are pretty much irrelevant. 

Someone had restacked the cd player, and music drifted through the room. Simon and Garfunkel. Bridge Over Troubled Water. When you're weary. Feeling small. When tears are in your eyes, I will dry them all. 

Tears ambushed me, then. Ambushed us all, so that stopped in mid-motion, pierced to the heart by that piercing voice, by memory and loss, we stared at each other and thought of Daniel. 

Like a bridge over troubled water, I will ease your mind. 

And so he had. With a smile, a touch, with his earnest, oblivious enthusiasms, he'd eased us all at one time or another. Often without realising he was even doing it, I suspect. Just by being ... Daniel. And for the first time, I think, as we stood silent in Jack's clean kitchen, listening to Jack's music, we came to our first true understanding of our bereavement. 

It's a feeling that haunts me, even now. Even after so long, with Daniel restored to us and so many more griefs accumulated in our collective history. 

The last soaring note faded into silence, became Cecilia, and the snappy upbeat Sixties-ness of it shattered the moment. Sam slid another plate into the sink, Teal'c swapped his damp tea towel for a dry one and George made space in a cupboard for the last of the glasses. 

"Well, I think that's everything now," I said, dropping the Budweiser bottle into the garbage. "We've done good, kids." 

"Yes," said George. "I think it went off pretty well." Then added, heavily, "All things considered." 

Yes. All things. Like having your car window smashed with a hockey stick. 

Teal'c and Sam knew what he meant, too. "I can't believe he did that," she said, head bent over the sink. Her voice was subdued, hesitant, as though she felt like a traitor saying the words out loud, but couldn't help herself. 

"Colonel O'Neill and Daniel Jackson were very close," said Teal'c. "The severing of such a bond can only be .... traumatic." 

George and I looked at each other. Teal'c had hit the nail right on the head. But I doubted if he knew why. Doubted that anyone else except George ... and Jack, of course ... knew the true circumstances behind that first trip to Abydos. Knew precisely what it was that had forged that special bond between the cynic and the scholar. 

George said, with casual ease, "I wouldn't worry too much about that if I were you, Sam. We all grieve differently. All have different ways of expressing our hurt. Jack's way is just a little more -- physical -- than most people's, that's all. It was only a window." 

Again, our eyes met. True. It was only a window. This time. But other times ... 

Teal'c said, "I, too, have felt like breaking something. If Daniel Jackson had fallen to an enemy, there would be someone to fight. Someone to punish for his death. But there is not. I feel ... strange. Filled with rage, and yet empty." 

"I think we all feel empty, Teal'c," Sam said. Slotted the last plate into the draining rack, and pulled the plug out of the sink. She stared at the suds swirling down the drain ... and her face blanched. With a low, startled cry she staggered, snatching at the bench top. 

"Captain Carter!" Teal'c had his hand under her elbow before I could move, was supporting her as she trembled. 

"What, Sam? What's wrong?" I demanded. 

Horrified, she stared at me. "Flashback. Daniel. Burning. Oh, God." She pressed her wet hands to her face. Muffled, said, "That's never happened to me before. I've never done that before." 

"Come and sit down," George said. "Teal'c?" 

"Yes, sit down, Captain Carter," Teal'c urged. "You are upset." 

She lowered her hands. Gently freed her elbow from Teal'c's concerned grip. "No. I'm fine. It was just a shock. I wasn't expecting it. I'm fine." 

"No," said George. "You're not. None of us are. We've lost a good friend under horrible circumstances. We're all of us feeling pretty shaky right now." And he looked at me, then, a wry expression in his eyes. Acknowledging that I'd been right, that the team indeed was suffering from post trauma, and that getting back on the horse straight after this fall would have been a major mistake. 

It's nice to have a commanding officer who can admit when he's wrong. 

"I think we should call you a cab," said George. "I can send someone out here to pick up your car tomorrow." 

Sam shook her head. "No, sir. That won't be necessary. I'm perfectly all right to drive. But I think it's time I left ... if that's okay with you, Teal'c?" 

"I am ready to leave when you are, Captain." 

She turned to George. "Would you -- could you say goodnight to the Colonel for us?" 

George's smile was gentle and understanding. "Of course. Good night, Sam. Teal'c." 

They left. Simon and Garfunkel sang their last track, and the Moody Blues took over. George and I finished up in the kitchen. 

I said, "You handled that well, by the way. The hockey stick thing." 

George sighed. "He says he wants to retire." 

"Does he mean it?" 

A weary shrug. "I think he thinks he does. Me, I think it's grief talking." 

"Grief didn't smash your car window," I pointed out. 

"Yes, it did. That's how Jack expresses grief ... you know that." 

I do. My turn to sigh. "You know, it's not so much that he smashed the window that has me worried. It's the fact that he did it in public." 

"It surprised me, too," George admitted. "It's not his usual m.o. I don't know, Doctor. What do you think it means?" 

"I think it means as much time off as is required and a softly, softly approach," I said. "We both know his history. With everything else he's been through, he could have done without this. My honest opinion? It's too soon to say whether he'll bounce back as good as before. I do think that retirement is probably the worst thing for him, but if he's serious about it, I don't see what we can do to stop him." 

George leaned against the fridge door. "I agree. I've managed to stall him, for now. Asked him to supervise the lockdown of Jackson's apartment." The flat of his hand slapped the cool white metal beside him. "Dammit! I liked that boy." 

"He was extremely likeable," I agreed. 

"I guess I should get going, too," said George. "Early start tomorrow." He glanced at the ceiling. "Can't say I like leaving him up there, though." "It's all right," I said. "I'll see he gets down safely. If he is in a state, I'm probably the best one to deal with it." 

George smiled. "A woman's touch, hmm?" 

"No," I said, sharply. "A doctor's. Not to mention the fact that I'm not his commanding officer, and that all doctor-patient interaction is confidential. My guess is he's already regretting the public outburst. No need to put more fuel on the fire." 

"As you say, Doctor," George agreed. "I'm sure you know what you're doing. I won't disturb him. Tell him I said good night?" 

"Of course, General," I said. 

Alone for the first time in Jack's home, I indulged in a little research. So I'm nosey. Sue me. The kind of medicine I practice at SGC is, if you'll pardon the pun, light years from the conventional take-two-asprins-and-call-me-in-the-morning stuff most peacetime military medicos truck with. I've dealt with exotic plagues, accelerated aging, cybernetic clones, organic bombs, symbiants, alien bacterial infestations ... the list goes on. I've handled physical traumas ranging from sprained ankles to shattered bones and volcanic gas poisoning. And all of that is easy, easy, compared to the psychological ramifications of Gate travel. Of the weird and wonderful adventures the SG teams have. 

How do you counsel someone who's aged fifty years in ten days? Someone who's been kept a prisoner inside her own body by an invading alien parasite? Someone who's just spent thirty six hours in agony pinned through the shoulder to a concrete wall, hostage to an alien intelligence? Someone who's been pushed to the very brink of genetic reconstruction? Someone who's come within a breath of killing their best friend because the torture of addiction and withdrawal has distorted their personality almost beyond recognition? 

I had no idea. I was making it up as I went along. I still am. All I knew, all that I still know, is that to help these people successfully, I have to understand them better than they will ever understand themselves. And while medical and personnel files are helpful, they're just a part of the picture. The rest of it comes with experience, with talking, listening, observing. 

Jack's house is an interesting case in point. The wake was my first visit, and since then it hasn't changed much. It's masculine, of course. Utilitarian. Comfortable. Not very many bright colours. Muted shades of brown and green and blue. Plants and artwork and an eclectic music collection. It's a guarded kind of place, revealing surprisingly little about its occupant, even to himself. The second most intriguing thing is the display of medals and commendations over the fireplace. Jack's a confident man. Unkind people might even call him arrogant. But he's not vain. Not pretentious. I looked at those medals and commendations for a long, long time, and wondered. 

And the most intriguing thing? 

No photographs. 

Even after the business with the crystal clone, very few people know about Charlie. Jack prefers it that way ... and who can blame him? But I found it interesting, and disturbing, that even in the sanctuary of his own home there were no photos of his slain child. At least, none that were in plain sight, where the eye might encounter them without warning. 

You know, denial really isn't just a river in Egypt. It's a big black hole that sucks into itself all the feelings we'd rather not have, but that to be healthy human beings we need to acknowledge and accept and experience. And then let go. In pretending that we don't feel them, we're not protecting ourselves at all. What we're doing is binding them more closely to our hearts, giving them a power over us that they were never meant to have. 

I speak from experience, you understand. 

The business with the hockey stick said to me that Jack's black hole was full to overflowing, and that if he didn't pull the plug and let some of those feelings out, then all of us were headed for trouble. 

As it turned out, I was right and wrong. As I said, I really didn't know Jack very well in those days. I'd only been on board a matter of months. He was professional, friendly, amusing, aloof. His files made for alarming reading. I wasn't at all sure, at first, that he should even be there. But after a while I relaxed, and patched up his bumps and bruises as required, and kept a weather eye out for trouble. I remember that above everything, knowing what I knew of his past, what I felt for him most was a kind of horrified pity. 

I suppose my first truthful experience of him was during the first plague crisis, when he battled the effects of the Neanderthal virus and offered himself as a human guinea pig for drug experimentation. 

I didn't want to do it. But I was desperate and he was insistent, and it worked out for the best. That's when I learned that this man needs no-one's pity. That pity in fact insults him. That he is possessed of a strength, a courage, an unyielding will that is so rare, so rare ... 

My second truthful experience was, of course, after the wake ... and it taught me ... a little more than I bargained for. 

Climbing narrow wooden ladders in high heels isn't my first choice of recreational activity, but it was a case of Mohamed going to the mountain, and so on. I knew Jack was more than capable of staying on the roof all night, and I wasn't sure it was a very good idea. So up I climbed and my heart wasn't in my mouth solely because of the heels and the ladder. 

He was settled in the corner of his rooftop hideaway. Back braced against the solid railing, knees drawn midway to chest, safely barricaded behind an array of empty bottles. Not a good sign. He was never what you could call an alcoholic, but in the months after his son's death, four out of his five major food groups were kinds of alcohol. The fifth was nicotine. 

He looked up as I hauled myself onto the roof. Watched me slip and stagger and curse with a kind of detached curiosity. 

Regaining my balance, I straightened my skirt. "Hi." 

"I'm very drunk," he informed me conversationally. "You might want to leave." 

"I just got here," I pointed out, and settled myself onto the camp stool parked in front of the telescope. 

He shrugged. "Fine. Just don't say I didn't warn you." 

A promising beginning. I looked up. It was a clear, bright night. The stars looked very close. "This is nice," I said. "Very peaceful." 

"It was," he said, and his voice was as dry as a desert. Lifting the bottle in his hand, he swallowed deeply. Held it out to me and said, in a bad brogue, "A foine Irish whiskey for a foine Irish wake. Want some?" I shook my head. He shrugged, swallowed some more, and said, "I thought everyone was gone." 

Some people slosh their sibilants when they're drunk. Others get very precise. Jack belongs to the precision school of inebriation. A little slow, a lot deliberate ... and maybe twice as dangerous. 

"Everyone else is," I replied. "They said to say goodbye. It's just me left." 

His eyebrows lifted derisively. "Checking up on me, Doc?" 

"Yes," I said. Want to make something of it? 

Another swallow. The bottle was nearly empty now, and it had been full when he started. I could see the freshly discarded screwtop, glinting in the light from next door. 

"Sweet," he said, and bared his teeth in a smile. 

Yes. Well. I'd never thought it was going to be easy. 

I poked around inside my shoulder purse, now by my feet, and pulled out my cigarettes and a lighter. Caught his expression and scowled. "Don't start. One or two a day, tops. And only on stressful days, at that." I lit up, then offered the pack to him. "Want one?" 

"I quit." 

"Is that a yes or a no?" 

He took one. Leaned forward so I could light it. Leaned back again, against the railing, and regarded the glowing tip of the cigarette in rapt silence. Then, shutting his eyes, he closed his lips around the filter and inhaled. An expression of blissful agony crossed his face as the smoke seeped into his lungs. He exhaled, a deep sigh, and let his head tilt back until it thumped gently against the rough wood behind him. 

"Screw the Surgeon General," he said. 

"Screw him," I agreed, and for a while we sat in silence under the starry sky, and smoked our cigarettes, and felt a little cold. At least, I did. Jack had enough alcohol in his blood to proof him against Antarctica. 

He said, "Why is it you always crave a cigarette after sex?" 

I raised my eyebrows. "I don't recall saying that I do." 

He scowled. "Not you you. People you." And muttered "Smartass" under his smokey breath. 

"In that case," I said, "I have no idea. Why do they?" 

"I don't know," he said. "You're the doctor, I thought you'd know." 

"Well, I don't," I said. And waited. 

He said, not looking at me, "Daniel would know. He'd have a long, involved explanation about how some ancient extinct tribe used to roll the leaves of some kind of fertility herb and then smoke it after sex in some kind of ritual to ensure conception and the ongoing prosperity of the tribe. And how now, via the miracles of genetic memory, modern man still feels the tug of that ancient ritual, which is why five thousand years later we get the irresistible urge to light up a post-coital Marlboro." Reaching up, he flicked ash over the side of the roof. "Some bullshit like that." 

I shrugged. "Maybe it isn't bullshit," I said. "Maybe Daniel is -- was --" Shit. "Would have been -- right." 

His eyes glinted in the dim light. "Tenses are a bitch, aren't they?" 

"Jack --" 

Another smile. "Janet?" 

"It wasn't your fault." 

"Wasn't it?" 

Cigarettes are very good props. Especially when you're stalling for time. Trying to work out your next move. Puffing quietly, I decided to play it safe and go with repetition. "No. It wasn't." 

"You're right," he agreed, and alternated a drag on the cigarette with a mouthful of whiskey. "It wasn't my fault." 

I blinked. "You agree with me?" 

"Sure." 

I shook my head. Too easy. Way, way too easy. "You're lying." 

The tip of his cigarette glowed balefully in the darkness. "That's -- kind of insulting." 

"Sorry." 

"Liar." 

My turn to grin. "Maybe it's contagious." 

"Look. Doctor. What are you trying to say?" 

I leaned forward. "That shit happens, Jack." 

He swallowed more whiskey. "Ain't that the truth." 

"Shit happens," I insisted. "Not everything is your fault." 

Nodding, he closed his eyes. "Right. Not everything. Not Daniel burning to death. Not Kowalski dying with his head sliced in half. Not Sara leaving me. Not Charlie killing himself with my gun." He looked at me, then, eyes black and bitter. "Christ, how could any of it have been my fault? I was only the commanding officer. The husband. The father. None of it had anything to do with me, right? It's what you said. Shit happens." 

I reached out. Tapped the ash off my cigarette into an empty beer bottle. "You're not being fair on yourself, Jack. You --" 

"Fuck you," he interrupted. "What the fuck do you know about it?" 

I sucked on my cigarette. Blew the smoke in his face. Fuck you too, mister. "I know that going through the Stargate is the single most dangerous thing anyone can do, and that there are no guarantees, none, that if you go through in one piece you'll come back the same way. I know that marriages break up for all kinds of reasons and it's almost never just one person's fault. And I know that kids have accidents and that loving them more than life itself doesn't mean they won't die." 

"Well, isn't that profound," he said. "Get that out of one of your fancy psychology textbooks, did you?" 

"No. From observation and personal experience." 

He nodded. Put his cigarette to his lips and inhaled sharply. Blew a smoke ring, smiled at it, and said, "Personal experience. So that means you left your revolver in your nightstand drawer, which you forgot to lock because you'd been out on wargames for six weeks and couldn't wait to screw your wife, came home from work the next day to take your wife and son out to dinner, heard your gun go off in the bedroom, rushed upstairs, found your son bleeding to death with a hole in him the size of your fist, rushed him to hospital, only to be told sorry, your child died on the way to theatre. Is that it? Is that your personal experience? Doctor?" 

I met his hot gaze without flinching. "I can't have children." 

"God did you a favour, then," he said, and laughed. 

Okay. I'll admit it. That hurt. So much so that I couldn't speak for a moment. Jack said, "Piss off, why don't you? Who invited you up here anyway? Not me." People in pain lash out all the time. It's an occupational hazard in my line of work. The trick is not to let it get to you. I stubbed out the remnant of my cigarette. Lit another. Time to get the conversation back on track. "Daniel knew the risks, Jack. He was an adult, he made his own --" 

"Bullshit!" he said. "Daniel was a kid. He knew fuck all. Thought everyone was his friend. Thought all he had to do was smile at people and they'd be reasonable. Head stuffed full of mythology and folklore and crap. There wasn't a sensible bone in his body. That's what I was for. To drum some sense into him. To say Daniel! Look what you're doing, for Christ's sake! Watch where you're putting your feet!" 

Stabbing the air with the bright burning end of my cigarette I said, "Jack, come on. You couldn't have known that the ground was going to open up like that right underneath him! That a wall of flame was going to flare up like that! You're not God!" 

"The fuck I'm not," he retorted. "I'm SG1's team leader. Same thing. It's my job to know everything. To protect everyone. To get my kids home in one piece. I fucked up. I blew it. I got Daniel killed because I wasn't paying attention." 

"That's not true!" I contradicted sharply. "For God's sake, Jack! Sounds to me like you're drunk on self-pity as much as whiskey!" 

In a single wild movement, Jack was on his feet. Bottles tipped and scattered and tinkled. He towered over me, eyes narrow and vicious, the barbed tongue unleashed and unforgiving. "And what the fuck would you know? Another fucking scientist. Christ Almighty, save me from fucking ignorant scientists. Why don't you go back where you belong, to your safe little laboratory with your safe little test tubes and your safe little experiments? Go on. Get the fuck out of my sight. Why should I give a shit about what you've got to say? You're nothing, you're a pencil pusher, a microscope monkey! You don't know squat about the real world!" 

That's when I temporarily misplaced my objectivity. All of a sudden it was personal. He'd made it personal, attacked me when I was only trying to help. 

I know. I know. Who was I kidding? You stick a needle in a tiger's behind, you gotta figure the tiger might object. 

Even if you are doing it for his own good. 

But Jack's not the only one with a temper ... and I don't need alchohol to help me lose mine. All it takes is a man, throwing abuse at me. 

There are good reasons why I'm divorced. 

"I don't know squat?" I shouted back at him, on my feet, shaking. "You arrogant prick! When was the last time you held someone's beating heart in your hand -- to save it, I mean, not rip it out by its roots! When was the last time you cut someone open to heal them, not slaughter them? When was the last time you stood for five hours up to your elbows in a patient's guts trying to sew him back together again, trying to make him live, and failed, and had to tell his parents? Huh? When was that?" 

"Don't go there," Jack said, and his voice was like a knife, unsheathing. "You have no idea of what I do, or why I do it, or --" 

"Oh, yes," I said, scathing. "I know. It's a hard job, but somebody's gotta do it. And nobody, least of all a geek scientist doctor who's saved your ass once or twice, can understand. So. Maybe you're right. What do I know? Maybe it is all your fault. You're responsible for Daniel burning alive. You're the reason Kowalski ended up with a goa'uld in his head. Sara didn't just leave you, she ran away, because you're the meanest sonofabitch on the face of the earth. And Charlie didn't shoot himself by accident, he did it to get away from you because you were such a lousy father. But hey -- why stop there? There's a hole in the ozone layer because you bought an aerosol fly spray! The country's got a seven billion dollar deficit because you don't save half your pay check every week! And three million Chinese drowned this month because you forgot to turn off your tap! Okay? You say you're God? Fine. Then every damned rotten thing in the whole wide world is your fault!" 

"Fuck you!" he shouted. Threw the whiskey bottle at me, hard, so close that I smelled the spilling dregs as it spun past my head to explode against the telescope behind me. 

I screamed. 

Somewhere down the street, a door banged. A dog started barking. A car, starting up, backfired. It sounded like gunshots. 

"Fuck you," Jack whispered. White to the bone. Shaking like an old man with palsy. The cool night air was soaked with violence and the stale stench of whiskey. 

My mouth was dry as ash. I took a step towards him. "Jack --" 

His hands came up as though I'd threatened him. Reeling sideways, he clutched at the railing, the ladder, and blundered his way back to earth. 

For a long time I stood there, shivering in the impersonal starlight. Then I braved the ladder a second time, and went to find him. 

As I let myself back into the house, I heard the sound of someone retching. It went on for a little while, then I heard a toilet flush. Runnng water. A moment later Jack came out of the downstairs bathroom, towel pressed to his face. He lowered his hands, saw me and stopped. 

Quickly I said, "Jack, I'm sorry." 

Silently he walked by me, up the stairs. Biting my lip, I followed him. "Jack," I said. "Please. Say something." 

He had his back to me, opening cupboards. "I think we've both said enough. Don't you?" 

"You can't not talk about this," I insisted. "It's too important." 

Still ransacking the cupboards, he spared a quick, cool glance over his shoulder. "Watch me." 

Frustrated, I did. "What are you looking for?" I said, as he swore under his breath and slammed another door closed. "Maybe we put things away in the wrong places, I --" 

"Ah," he said. Turned around. He had a bottle in his hand. 

"Don't you think you've had enough for one day?" I said quietly. 

"No," said Jack. He found a glass. Unscrewed the lid. The bottle chinked against the glass as he poured; the glass chinked against his teeth as he drank. 

"Jack," I said, feeling helpless, feeling desperate, "this won't help." 

"Yes, it will," he said, and poured some more. 

"How?" I demanded, itching to take the bottle and glass away from him. I didn't dare. 

"If I drink enough I'll pass out, and if I pass out, I --" He stopped. 

"What?" I prompted gently. 

"Nothing," he said. 

I took a deep breath. My heart was racing. "Jack. I can't make you talk to me, I know that. But at least be honest with yourself. The silence, the drinking ... it's what destroyed your marriage. Nearly destroyed your life. Don't let it happen again. It's the last thing Daniel would want for you." 

He flinched. Scowled. Poured another three fingers' worth. Rattle, rattle, chink. 

"Think about what you're doing, Jack," I said. "You've got responsibilities. You're not the only one grieving, here. What about Sam? She loved Daniel as much as you did. Who's going to help her get through this if you don't? And Teal'c? You're the only family he has, now. Don't try and tell me his stoneface routine's got you fooled. I won't believe you. They're your team, Jack. Your kids. They look to you for direction. They need you to get through this." 

"I can't help them," he said. Harshly. As though the words themselves hurt. "How can I help them? I can't even -- I can't --" One hand came up to cover his face, and he was shaking. Muffled, he said, "He screamed to me for help. He was burning, and screaming, and I couldn't save him. Just like Charlie. Charlie cried, he kept saying 'Daddy it hurts, Daddy it hurts, Daddy I'm scared, help me Daddy', and I tried but he died. He died, and Daniel died, and I keep seeing it over and over and I want it to stop, Jesus, Jesus, please, I just want it to stop!" 

I reached out my hand. Touched him. He grabbed me, crushed my fingers in his. It hurt, it really hurt, but I just bit my lip and let him hang on. 

We stood there like that for a long time. Not speaking. Not moving. Eventually he let go of my hand. Uncovered his face. He bent down and kissed my cheek, and smiled at me, and disappeared into his bedroom. 

I let myself out, and drove home. It was very late. The streets were almost deserted. My hand ached gently from the desperate pressure of his fingers, and the skin of my face burned where his lips had touched me, and it was a long, long time before I fell asleep. 

Against all expectations, we got Daniel back. 

Wet, tired, bemused ... alive. 

I should have kicked the rest of SG1 out of the infirmary while I examined him, but I didn't have the heart. They didn't want to let him out of their sight, and I can't say that I blamed them. Besides, Daniel didn't seem to mind. He was too full of what had happened. 

"And you're not mad at him? This Nem?" said Sam, shaking her head. 

"No, no," said Daniel. "How could I be? He was half out of his mind with grief. All those years, thousands of years, never knowing what had happened to his wife!" He blinked rapidly. Swallowed. "How could I be angry when I know exactly how he feels?" 

"He must have known she was dead," said Teal'c. 

"Why? Look how long they live," said Daniel. "Anything could have happened to her." 

Sam shivered. "But she was murdered. By a goa'uld. It's awful." 

"Yeah," said Jack. "Almost as awful as someone getting inside our heads and making us believe that Daniel went krispy kritters right in front of our eyes." And he lifted his eyebrows meaningfully at her. 

Daniel, Sam and Teal'c exchanged looks. Daniel said, "I'm really sorry about that, guys. I guess it's my fault. If I hadn't shown him that I understand cuniform he probably would have just sent us back through the gate and --" 

"Can it, Daniel," said Jack. "It wasn't your fault. Besides, what's done is done. All that matters is that you're back, and in one piece. Which reminds me. Once you've had a little sleep, and the doc here gives you the final all clear, you and I are going to have a little chat about volunteering to have your brain vacuumed by weird alien devices. Got it?" And he scowled, menacingly. 

"Help," said Daniel. Grabbed Teal'c and tugged him into place as a shield. "Save me." 

"I will not," said Teal'c, frowning. "I will in fact jump on Colonel O'Neill's bandwagon. Your actions were extremely foolish." 

We all stared at him. Teal'c stared back. 

"Was not my use of this idiom correct?" he asked. 

"Uh -- it was," said Sam. "I think that's why we're stunned." 

Teal'c regarded us gravely. "I am crushed," he said. 

"Okay," I said, over the laughter. "Enough. Daniel needs to get some rest, now." 

"Yeah," said Daniel. "No fair picking on the newly resurrected." 

I ushered them out into the corridor. Jack lingered. "He really is going to be okay?" 

"Yes, Colonel, he's going to be fine," I said. 

For a moment he stood there, staring into the distance. "Guess I was wrong." 

"What about?" I said. He looked remade. 

"All he has to do is smile at people ... and they are reasonable." 

I looked up at him. Grinned. "Well," I said. "Most people." 

"Touché," he said. "And ... thanks." 

I wasn't going to ruin things by pretending I didn't know what he meant. I just nodded. Touched him briefly on the arm. "You're welcome. Any time." 

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah." 

I watched him saunter down the corridor, all traces of the man on the roof, with the hockey stick, erased. Or at least ... carefully hidden. But I knew that dangerous man was still there, somewhere. And he knew that I knew. It made for -- an interesting subtext. 

As somebody once said .... I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship.   


* * *

>   
> © 1998 The characters mentioned in this story are the property of Showtime and Gekko Film Corp.  
> The Stargate, SG-I, the Goa’uld and all other characters  
> who have appeared in the series STARGATE SG-1 together with the names,   
> titles and backstory are the sole copyright property of MGM-UA Worldwide Television,   
> Gekko Film Corp, Glassner/Wright Double Secret Productions and Stargate SG-I Prod. Ltd.   
> Partnership.  
> This fanfic is not intended as an infringement upon those rights and   
> solely meant for entertainment.   
> All other characters, the story idea and the story itself   
> are the sole property of the author.   
> 

* * *

  


_http://www.stargatefan.com_


End file.
